From the top of the Grand Staircase the Mississippi opens below, a mile wide ribbon of working water that made the city long before any monument crowned its bank. The worn cobblestone apron at the foot of the steps is the old steamboat levee, where paddlewheelers once tied up side by side to load cargo bound west. Spring floods routinely swallow the lower steps, so the view is best taken from the upper plateau. This riverfront, not the steel behind it, was the true gateway to the West, the point where furs came down from the mountains and expeditions shoved off for the plains. A sweeping vantage and a fitting place to close the loop before the path circles back toward the start.
Come to the top of the staircase and stop right here — the view's better from up top, and the river's the whole reason. That wide brown ribbon below you is the Mississippi, a mile of moving water that built this city long before anybody thought to set a monument on it. Look down at the foot of the stairs: that worn apron of cobblestone is the old steamboat levee, the grade where paddlewheelers once nosed in side by side, unloading everything bound for the West. In the high-water months more than half of those lower steps go clean under — the river still runs this town, so we'll keep our feet up here and watch it from above. This is where St. Louis met the Mississippi. Where the fur came down out of the mountains, the steamboats came in loaded, and the country shoved off toward the Plains. The real Gateway to the West was never the steel arch at your back. It was this — the water, and the boats, and the hands that loaded them. Stay put a minute. There's a tale in this river, and somebody's been waiting on the right spot to tell it.
Photo: National Park Service (NPS) · Public domain
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